I am waiting on scan results (brain MRI and another test).
The results are in somewhere . . . I just don’t have the results yet . . . because that is how it works. So my family is worried (I understand this) and I am worried too. Welcome to the post-cancer landscape.
It is funny . . . when I went into the imaging center and filled out the routine paper work and answered all of the the routine questions that I always have to answer . . . I couldn’t help but laugh at how this is all now so routine. And yet, it simply is not.
I flew threw the questions, checking the box next to “no” in most cases and then stopped on the question: “Are you claustrophobic” I had to laugh (to myself, mind you . . . I realize the implications of someone laughing out loud while filling out medical forms in the lobby of an imaging center . . . not that I particularly care if strangers think I am a loon . . . this cancer roller coaster does make you a bit loony at times).
I used to be claustrophobic . . . and I suppose on some levels I must still be. But, in the scheme of things – spending 20 to 25 minutes in a narrow tube with a bunch of loud noises – isn’t really that big of a deal. What is a big deal is what the waiting does to my parents . . . waiting, worrying, crying. I feel helpless for them. How can I reassure them? How can I reassure myself?
Sigh. Here is a Tom Petty song that speaks to me at the moment: The Waiting.
So, back to the “routine” questions and paperwork and the “routine” MRI . . .
So what will they do if I were to answer yes to “Are you claustrophobic?” Would they not put me in the MRI tube, not do the imaging that my doc has requested? So I checked no, because it doesn’t really matter how I feel about having the MRI and being put in that noisy tube. What matters is that it has to be done. So I took a deep breath (and a valium) before going in and prayed pretty much the whole time . . . Our Father who art in heaven . . .
I tried counting how many times I could say the “Our Father” all the way through without forgetting where I was . . . I didn’t get past “hallowed be thy name” very many times (MRIs are pretty noisy – despite the ear plugs they have you wear). For me, noise is a big distractor post chemo. But, I think I got through the whole prayer at least a few times. I know my parents prayed and so it goes. We pray and we hope and we wait. And all along I know that someone else out there has it far worse than I do.
So for those of you who have not experienced the joy of an MRI, here is a little bit what it is like. You lay down on a bed of sorts (hardly a bed, but more of a platform that seems to be designed for thin people . . . I’m just saying . . . maybe it is because I went to an imaging center in Newport Beach – the plastic surgery mecha of Orange County). Once you are on this thing, they place a plastic cage like thing over your head (this head gear thing they put over your head looks like something out of “Silence of the Lambs”. I kept thinking “Claaaaaareeeese, Clareeeeeeeeeeeese” . . . yeah, I know, a little creepy). Then they send you on your way into the tube (oh there was also an injection of contrast fluid – which THANKFULLY did NOT require the placement of an IV – WOO-HOO)!!!!!!!!!!!!
So how weird is that to be splitting your time between thoughts of “Silence of the Lambs” and “The Lord’s Prayer”? Odd, I know.
I try to take all of this stuff with a bit of humor. But, unfortunately fears are not very funny; especially the fears of my parents.
So if you would, please say a prayer and/or send some positive vibes my way for me and for my parents.
Thank you so much.
Love and peace,